The Kitchen and I
by Lupia
Summary: Ann's a no-nonsense kind of girl, and she most certainly doesn't believe in love at first sight, fairy-tale endings or winning the cooking contest. She doesn't like fairies or magic. But she does like cooking, and she likes Cliff a little bit, too.
1. Love at first taste

Author's note: Mmm, I've been waiting to join this site forever. Now I'm 13, I can! Yay! I've been writing forever, and my first fanfic I ever read was Green Eyed Girl. 3 I loved it. Now, this is my own story, all about Ann and her love for cooking.

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**Chapter one: Love at first taste**

The kitchen has always been my favourite place in the whole wide world.

I love the sights – sparkling white sinks, smooth surfaces, that no matter how much you scrub them, will always have that lingering smell of long gone food and the light in the oven, when you know it's cooking your favourite dish of all time.

I love the sounds – a shake of pepper, a dash of sauce, the chatter of chefs and the _ting_! our oven makes when the dinner is ready, my personal favourite. I love the soft running of the tap, and the clean chop of the knife.

I love the smells – oh gosh, the _smells_, where do I begin! The buttery, sweet smell of baking, the savoury smell of melting cheese, strong tomato scents and vinegar and salt. I love that crispy cool waft of salad sinking into my nostrils. I could go on and on.

I love the feel of everything – the smooth surface of the plates, the cool touch of cucumber and when you dip your hands in a bowl of water, that cool wet sensation tingling right through your fingertips. I love running my fingers along the sharp edge of the knife.

And best of all, I love the taste. The hot tingle of pie, any pie, and the cool one of icy lemonade. I like any taste – spicy, sweet, savoury, cheesy, buttery, nutty, creamy, crunchy, anything. I'll eat any flavour, as long as that flavour is not called "plain". I have flexible taste buds. My taste buds are without a doubt the most beautiful part of my body. Taste is the most important sense when you're in a kitchen, that's our motto.

Even when I was a little girl, I'd clap my hands and coo with glee whenever I was brought into the kitchen. It was better than any toy, all my senses being used at once. It was love at first taste.

It's a shame that I'm only a waitress. It was fun when I was fourteen, and I got to have a fair share of money, but my passion for cooking is beginning to burn through. If only my papa would see that. We're a cooking duo, see, in our own inn. The best inn in town. The only inn in town. He would cook; I'd serve it up. I made a lot of friends that way. We're actually considered five star, y'know. But the cooking bug, it's got to me again.

It's woven into my genetics, see.

My mother was a cook, too. But she died. Yeah. I can't remember a thing, but I know she loved me a lot, so I guess I loved her back.

There's a picture of her on our television. She was pretty. She looked like me, I guess, but I don't judge my own appearance. She had flaming red hair, like me, like dad. His hair's a different type of red though, more ginger; now greying slightly. She had round pale blue yes with lots of eyelashes, like me. Full lips, like me. A few freckles on her nose and a really sweet smile. My eyes water a bit when I look at that photo, but I blame it on the onions.

My mother and my papa, both cooks. He employed a couple of people back then, when the village was really populated, to be waiters. It'd died down before she died, but he only started the father-and-daughter-cooking duo when I was nine. It was cheesy, but I loved it. He even dedicated a dish to me. Cheese fondue, my _favourite_.

He also dedicated a dish to my mother. Pumpkin pudding, it was her favourite. She loved the autumn, and she died in the autumn as well. I always take care of the inn when it's the anniversary of her death. She was ill and died in her sleep, peacefully. She had to let go. I feel a bit sad when I think about it, I just think about what my papa must have felt when he found her.

He goes up once a year in the autumn, and sits on the mountain. I take care of the inn, making the most of it. I always encourage diners to eat the pumpkin pudding, I tell them the story, and they always buy it. I wished he'd let me take care of the inn more often, on a less sad day.

So here's my story, all about me and my relationship with cooking.

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Author's Note: I love you if you got this far. :


	2. A slice of Mineral town

You guys are so sweet. Thank you all. :) These first few chapters are just introductions to Ann's life, and then I'll be working on the plot line. And I'll definitely keep working on this story!

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**Chapter two: A slice of Mineral town**

Anyone who's from around Mineral town would know my Papa is a great cook. He likes to advertise his cooking subtly, whenever he cooks, he opens a window so the smells would waft out of the window. It usually brings customers to the door. Sometimes it gets so crowded; he has to shut that window. He loves the kitchen just as much as I do.

And he always wins the annual cooking competition in Rose Square. And he's the only man who ever has won it, in the history of Mineral town.

Oh, Mineral town?

It's something, all right, but maybe I only say that because I grew up there. It's like a town in a fairy tale, with a sweet, sugary coating – like icing! Because really, the exterior of Mineral town is pretty sweet; _y'know_, green roly-poly hills, cherry blossom trees like candy-floss, clear blue sea, etc, etc.

The forest is especially fairy tale-like, where I used to play away warm, hazy afternoons as a little girl. All twisty green trees and butterflies "buttery-flies", tree trunks and moss. We used to play by this wonderful deep blue pond, with trickling streams and a magnificent waterfall. We used to pick flowers and play imaginary games. My best friends were Rick and Karen. We used to believe in fairies. I think Karen still _does_. She took one look at the butterflies flitting around, and told us, 'Look! Fairies!'

I replied, 'Those are buttery-flies.'

'Yeah, but at night the buttery-flies break out of their insect bodies and into fairies, but still with their buttery-fly wings! They fly around, dancey-dancing in the air, like _this_,' Karen retorted passionately, demonstrating a twirl. I was only six then, and she was only seven. I think she was pretty clever to make that up all by herself. I mean, she made it up, right?

I listened, in awe, as did Rick. Karen noticed us, and tossed back her pretty brown hair. 'You don't believe me, do you?' she asked, a bit hurt. I wasn't sure if I believed her, but she was a wonderful storyteller, with a fantastic imagination. 'You think it's just a nice story. It's real, I _promise_. I wish I could see them. My grandmother saw them. I _know_ she did. She told me. I want to see them too…'

Karen's head drooped down like a little puppy, her chestnut brown hair falling down strand by strand. She then popped right up again like a jack-in-the-box. 'I've met the sprites too! Oh, please believe me. I _have_. They're ever sweet; they live far in the forest behind the church. I'm not allowed to go back there, because mummy told me off for lying, and for getting lost. They were so nice, I was upset because I couldn't find my way through the forest up there – it's not a bit like this forest, it's very dark and scary – and they gave me directions. I _wish_ I could see them again, too…'

Karen thought a lot of herself and she could be quite bossy, but she was imaginative, playful and affectionate. She's also kind of weird, because she's a bit of a bad girl now, _y'know_. She drinks wine and she flirts with boys, that kind of thing, which isn't much, I guess, but for Mineral town, it's shocking. But then I know that while she does all that, she's really intelligent and reads books and poetry, and tells great stories. We don't see much of each other nowadays, sometimes we went down to the forest and reminisced or she came to the bar, but only for a drink. Not to see me. But I enjoyed whipping up her favourite cocktails for her, if only for the "Thanks, Annie!"

I miss her, so, so much. And I know that she _can_ come back, she's under there, under all that new Karen. Like an onion. I could try and peel away the new Karen, in order to find the real Karen, the Karen I knew _she_ preferred as well. Oh, don't get me wrong. She's still funny, sparky, whatever. But she's not the Karen everyone else, including her, prefers. She made everything so magical.

I don't care about Rick. He was a pushover, and always went along with what Karen said. Karen liked me, I know, because I stood up to her when I didn't agree with her plans. She had a small weakness. If anyone disagreed with her, she'd let him or her have their way. And trust me, Karen almost always wanted to have her way. She just admired people who disagreed with her.

Oh gee, I guess I wandered off in a completely different direction when describing my dear sweet little hometown. Stupid, simple Ann. That's m'name. Always so _boisterous_, always so _loud_! Why can't you be a little more like _Elli_, Ann? A little more like _Mary_? I'm not, not, _not_ boisterous, or loud. I don't know why people say I am. Just because I was a country girl who wore dungarees and never played with dolls. Couldn't they _see_ I'd grown up a little? Couldn't they _see _I tried to be a little more lady-like? I tried _so_ hard. I wasn't even loud or boisterous in the first place.

I was just me.

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Okay, it's sort of meant to be like Ann's chatting away to you, hehe, if you're wondering. :) I really thank all of you for reviewing, it's so nice of you! Really, truly, express what you think about it. If there are any mistakes in it, tell me. Thanks. :D


	3. No more childhood

!!!!!!!!! I love you guys! This isn't a particularly good chapter, but I've tried a couple of times and I couldn't get better than this. D:

**Chapter three: A taste of nostalgia**

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Y'know, I only really had time to relax in that sacred hour, before I went to sleep, after the bar shut. I sat with Papa on the squishy soft sofa and watched the television. Yes, television. All right, I'll admit it, I liked television. Him and me had our own sides. _His_ was neat and not particularly personalised, with his newspapers tucked neatly behind that chocolate velvet cushion that complimented the soft caramel of the sofa.

Mine, on the other hand, had a whole lot of cushions, to which he agreed with, as long as they matched the sofa. So I got a whole lot of soft velvet cushions in shades of cream, caramel, toffee, etc. I generally squashed them into corner, that way it's more comfy. I neatly folded my blanket over the edge, and curled up with it while we watched our programmes.

We compromised. It's only an hour we had to watch it, so I got half an hour, he got half an hour. We were so gosh darn _clever_! Ha. Kidding. He liked to watch really cheesy comedies from like a hundred years ago, and _sports_. I liked to play sports. I hated to watch them. Now, _I _liked cartoons, and reality television! They were my guilty pleasure, like popcorn. And he hated both of them too. We agreed to disagree.

Sometimes, even if it was his turn for programmes, he'd slouch and not look at the screen, and let me switch channels. He's stare over the top of the television, at the photo frame of my mother, sitting on the television, laughing. I wondered if he ever missed her. He never talked about her. I remember Karen looking at it, and told me that she was pretty enough to be one of her beloved fairies. Then she thought about it and declared that my mother was now a fairy, and came alive at night and kissed me on each cheek. Y'know, I never minded when people talked about her.

Sometimes I'd watch programmes about people who ate junk food every day twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I thought how _horrible _that'd be. Imagine, eating the same food for the rest of your life! And those programmes were enough to get you clutching your mineral water and salad. Papa's food was so good, and so healthy. We used _local produce_. Papa liked to remind customers this a lot.

Me, Karen and Rick used to watch old Disney movies, old cartoons and old music videos. Everything nostalgic. Nostalgia's a large part of my life, I guess. It was probably because the minute I was nine, my father and I decided that I'd be a waitress. But he always gave me the rest of the day off.

Then when I was fourteen, I started working really long hours. I stopped seeing my friends anymore. And it wasn't just me.

Well. We were _all_ busy. Rick's mother got diagnosed with a horrible disease a year prior; I remember the day when I had the rest of the day off, and I went to meet them, as usual. I wandered into the soft grassy area, and saw Rick; tears running down his freckled little face like the waterfall nearby. He stopped coming as often, because he was so worried about his mother. I felt so bad for him, and I felt like I should help too, since my mother had died of a similar disease. But I couldn't, and it just made him feel worse that my mother had _died_. The year I started working full time, Rick did too. And Karen, she had it pretty easy compared to all of us. No, that's mean. I know she got really lonely without us. But I had no idea she'd resort to _drinking_.

Rick had been a really happy guy before, even if he was a little sappy. Now my two friends had completely changed. I was looking at a sad, hopeless guy, and a girl who had sworn the taste of wine made her feel sick, drinking. I was looking at red, swollen, tear stained eyes behind misty glasses, which had once been bright, shiny eyes that had perfect vision, and dark shadowed tired eyes that had once been a pair of fresh dewy greens.

_My_ peacock blue eyes felt like crying.

Where'd my friends go?

So we stopped seeing each other quite so much. I saw less of those dark shady forests and more of those shiny mahogany tables. I couldn't help but daydream about them coming into the inn, to order something. I'd think about them a lot, whether I was wiping the tables off with a swooping hand, or scribbling down an order. I guess it marked the end of my childhood.

I'd remember Rick's humiliation when he got his glasses, his weak little arms, his silly comic books. I remember fondly teasing him for all of these things, but even though I said I didn't like him that much, I liked him _for _his faults.

I'd remember thinking how silly Karen was for all her fancy fairy – witch – goddess – sprites stories.

I wish they were real now.

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Ha. It's going to get better, I promise, it's just I didn't really have a chance to use description, dialogue, etc. I will in the next chapter though. :)


	4. The festive aftertaste

Aww, thank you all so much. Yeah, it is sad when friends grow apart… It's happened to me before. D: Ooh, Ann's special romantic interest… hmm… anyway, the garden she's cleaning is that garden you can see from OUTSIDE the inn, but you can't go into. I always wondered about that. Now, this is a long one. Forgive me.

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Chapter four: The (bad) festive aftertaste 

I do a little cleaning as well as being a waitress. I enjoy it, y'know, I see it as a sport; it's just a pity there aren't Olympic games for it! I mostly clean off the tops of the tables and counters, wash the dishes, make the beds – I don't clean the bedrooms, because our motto is "Our inn is a home to you, so you darn well treat it like your home". Which means guests clean up after themselves. I suggested papa take out the "darn" to make it more family friendly, but he said that had been the motto for 10 generations back. So I guess it's staying.

On the subject of our motto, the lodgers actually _do_ become part of our family. Sometimes they stay for months, even years sometimes. They're allowed to wander into the kitchen, or sit down on the spare chairs to watch television with us; so really, you wouldn't trash your own home, would you? Well, I wouldn't doubt _some_ people. But they become family because it's not a hotel, there are only a couple of rooms in the hotel.

We had waved goodbye to a flame-haired, cold-eyed girl called Nami in early winter. It had taken a while for her to get used to us, but it turns out her heart _was_ as warm as her hair. She was pretty intelligent, and you could tell she'd seen a lot in her time. I liked Nami because she liked good food, and anyone who likes good food can't be stupid, or cold. She really loved gratin and quite liked apple pie, especially _papa's_ apple pie. She also really liked history, or nature programmes.

If there's one thing I always remember about a lodger is their favourite dish and their favourite programmes.

I _cried_ when Nami left. She'd never be really close or whatever, but she was like my cool older sister. I never really cry; I'm neither sentimental nor unrealistic, but I felt the tears breaking out from behind my eyes, running down my cheeks. I didn't feel very sad, actually, because it happened all the time; they came and left.

Every single one of the lodgers is going to leave _one_ day.

And yet the tears poured. Nami gave me a confused, but fond look at me, like an owner might give an energetic little puppy. She gave me one last wave and boarded the boat, and went inside.

I wondered what she was doing, _right_ this minute. I was cleaning the gardens out, as it had been a busy night last night. Knowing her, she'd be asleep. That Nami! I swiped the cobbles of the garden thoroughly. It wasn't a proper garden; no, it was just a nice little place with a couple of tables and benches, with some trimmed hedges, and a couple of roses. I emptied an ashtray, and wiped up some … _ick_.

I was feeling pretty depressed, _if_ you must know, since it was the 26th. That meant the festiveness was all over; y'know, that lovely sparkly atmosphere, where lights are on the ivy vine, and when fresh snow lands on your shoe. Now, it was the aftermath, the after_taste_, and believe me, the aftertaste isn't pleasant. The snow was grey and mushy, the lights were fizzling out like a blow out candle. I stuck my tongue out; I could _taste_ the difference. Before the Starry Night festival, the air throbbed with anticipation and wafts of cinnamon. Now the air was hard, cold and spiteful. The sky was darkening as well. I wiped the last of the tables off.

It had been one busy night, last night. Like any self-respecting, decent, good-for-something inn, we hold events every now and again. Y'know, quiz night, karaoke, "who-can-drink-the-most-wine-without-passing-out", fancy dress parties, darts, all round parties, sometimes a play is organised and sometimes we get a band playing or something. We do it on festivals sometimes, like on New Year's after the festival, a lot of people come round to ours, sometimes not getting home till dawn. Never on the _actual_ Starry Night festival, since we consider it bad taste to hold a bar event on a religious festival. The Starry Night festival, Thanksgiving, the Music festival, the Harvest festival, any livestock festival; those are in praise of the Harvest Goddess.

Now, I believe in the Harvest Goddess. Most of us do. But I was a practical girl, y'know? I didn't think she was a real _goddess_; I thought she was a woman who founded Mineral town hundreds of years ago. But I knew she has got a right to be praised, I guess, so I did; I felt a little bad, but I didn't believe in fairies, goddesses, _sprites_, love at first sight, luck, and especially not magic. And Karen believed in all of them.

Going back to the Harvest Goddess; I didn't think she was an _ordinary _woman. I knew she was a very good woman, a very beautiful one, who did many, many things for this town. I did believe that when she was a very old woman, she died next to the pond that is now known as the Goddess pond. I believed everything in the "Goddess's Book", but I switched off when it comes to magic. I was just practical, I guess. Now I look back on it, I'd call myself "narrow minded", but I'll carry on from me cleaning out the gardens. Where was I? Oh yeah.

I dusted off my prim white apron, and went back into the inn, from the door that went into the grand hall. This hall certainly was grand; it was where the diners ate, and where the counter for the bar was. There was a platform in the corner of the hall, with two scarlet curtains on each side, perfect for all the events listed. Sometimes a piano would be moved up there, sometimes a microphone, sometimes just about anything at all. It had been an all round _party_, but some people dressed up in silly costumes, and we ended the night with karaoke.

'Hey, Ann!' I heard my father's voice attempt to break its way through my thoughts. It failed though. Papa dressed up as _Santa Claus_, for goodness' sake, butt he was convincing, even though he's a redhead, like me. He was just plump enough and he had the voice spot on. He made me dress up as a Christmas fairy, much to my dismay.

The lights had been turned off, and the violet headlights had been turned on. When karaoke started, the local policeman Harris started it off with "Last Starry Night festival", though he sang out of tune. Manna firstly wanted to do a festive one too, then with a lot of fussing and tossing of her raven hair, then swapped to some old hit by The Golden Chickens; then Jeff, who had been forced on, sang some folk song in a shy, quiet voice, but somehow got a _huge_ applause.

Popuri flounced on, giggling, and first started singing a strange song called "I love Kai, I love Kai, I love Kai". I clapped for her anyway. I kept getting a lot of Christmas fairy remarks, which I couldn't tell were compliments or just plain creepy. I had been mixing lots of drinks all night. A couple of people sang some more songs, I remember Elli sang "Chocolate cake for you,' in her dear little voice, Ellen sang yet another folk song that got loud applause, Duke sang "Intoxicated". Karen ended the night with an unexpected choice; a hymn I didn't know, but I knew she was in the choir. She was definitely the best singer, but I thought she'd sing some loud, fast, catchy song.

'Ann!'

This time I did break out of my thoughts, and turned around. I saw Papa standing there, wearing his best waistcoat, next to a tired looking guy, with a sort of irritatingly _needy_ look about him, but I suppose he couldn't help that. He had a baby face, with a round shape, though quite a prominent jaw and wide dark eyes, and long dark hair, creamy pale skin and broad shoulders.

Oh. The new lodger. I'd forgotten.

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Hmmmm, who could it be? Haha, lack of imagination in this one, but I quite liked the fact I included that SHE WAS CLEANING OUT THAT FORBIDDEN GARDEN. : And the whole "inn events" were fun to write about; I always wondered if the inn ever held stuff like that… so I included it in my fanfic. oo


	5. New bird on the block

Thanks, both of you! This is another long one... I swear the next one won't be long. :)

**Chapter five: New bird on the block**

**-**

There's something cosy about our rooms at the inn. They're warm, and you can redecorate them slightly; it's 10g for me to rearrange the room, and you can put posters on the wall, pictures on your chests of drawers, you can change your sheets, whatever. But

Most of it's _your_ responsibility to clean it out, bring your own covers, y'know? I will make their bed, and okay, I will put on the sheets, and yeah, I'll iron your shirts, but seriously, _you'll _bring the stuff and if _you _mess it up, _you'll _tidy it up again.

You agree to our rules; y'know, the _obvious_ stuff, like pay every month – no trashing the place – _no animals in the inn_. I know it's harsh, but it's a rule – we weren't saying you can't keep them outside or whatever – just inside the inn. Because agreeing to stay at our inn, you're agreeing to the rules, and agreeing to the rules means you're agreeing to become a temporary member of our family. And families help each other out. But occasionally, you make allowances.

'Clifford?' I asked, as I carried his boxes up to his room.

'No… it's Cliff,' he mumbled. It wasn't my fault; it was what he told my papa he was called over the phone. I turned the key into a warm green handpainted door and twisted the golden knob.

'This is yours,' I told him brightly. I smiled. It was our best room, in my opinion; with the glossy wood panels and the adorably small fireplace; the mahogany wardrobe; the window where sun would filter through; the billowing white curtains; soft lime green bedcovers. I beckoned him to come over.

'This is the laundry chute,' I said absent mindedly, as I peered into the little door. I demonstrated by putting my dirty apron down the chute. I felt a bit bare in just my yellow silk blouse and jeans, for some reason. 'See? Just put your laundry in and Bob's your uncle. Though I'm sure Bob's not your uncle, haha.'

'W-Why are there two chutes?' he asked timidly. He looked like a _sensitive _type that they talked about in gushy giggly magazines. The type Popuri read. The type I _never._ I knew loads of girls would be cuckoo over him, since he was the type that had got soppy eyes in a boy band, though he was a bit scruffy for that.

'Oh, that? That's not a chute,' I replied, walking over to it, and opening the little door. 'That, m'boy, is the chute for when you're too ill to come downstairs to get your dinner and breakfast. Instead, I pop it in here, push the lever, and it turns up in here. Nice little invention, no?'

He was a bit silent. I giggled. 'Betcha never had a girl who you just met in your bedroom, huh?'

No laugh, no smile forming on his broad jaw. He looked very _masculine_, as well as very sensitive. Oh gosh, girls were going to be _screaming _over him. Not me though. Never Ann. Not tomboy Ann, the one who's still happy running in the mud, nu'uh. I pondered about this – not many people truly knew _me_, they all thought I was into sports, not cooking. _They didn't know I liked cooking. _My eyes widened. It's not really a big deal, I guess, but when something's your greatest passion, you generally want it to be known, right?

'Well, I have to help you unpack. Which, in other words, means I have to get to know you in fifteen minutes,' I declared, slamming a box on the bed, and stripping off the sellotape. He sat down on the next near me, and began clutching a box defensively – it was _moving_, ever so slightly. I didn't notice this; I opened a box filled to the brim with brightly coloured book covers. I gasped happily.

'You cook?' I asked enthusiastically, nodding over at a cookbook.

'… Well… nah, _I_ don't… but whenever I go somewhere, I like to tell the cook my favourite dishes – so – so maybe they'll make it for me someday,' he explained, his gaze not meeting mine. 'I like good food. All food really, as long as it's good quality and made by the hands of a man I trust.'

'Good food I know. My papa? He's a good cook if I ever saw one. And he's way more trustworthy than _me_, so it's okay if you have a bad impression of me, _he's_ alright. I – I cook a little,' I added quietly.

'Do you? Aren't you like – the waitress around here?' He asked doubtfully.

'Well yeah. No one knows I cook, actually; I wonder if there's anyway I can, y'know, let them know…' I ripped off some sellotape slowly, and thoughtfully. I placed some clothes neatly in a pile.

'Is there a cooking contest somewhere? We always had one in our town,' he replied, still holding the box close to him.

'Yeah – but papa wins that every year! And I don't know if I'm good or not – maybe one day you can try out my cooking, huh?' I asked, placing some books on a shelf.

'I'd love to,' he replied, grinning. I was pleased that he had started talking less shyly. It was probably the only gift I had – I could make people warm up to me easily. I smiled back at him.

I threw a few chunks of wood on the already lit fire, and listened to the fire crackle aggressively. I wondered what Cliff had been doing on the Starry Night festival, or if he celebrated it at all.

I could've asked it, but I didn't. Instead I grabbed the box Cliff had been keeping close to him, giggling while he protested – and swiped off the sellotape. He looked stricken. 'Don't worry, I'm sure I've seen much worse in lodger's bags than a … _bird?!'_

I found myself face to face with a pair of wide golden and brown eyes, blinking, calm. It ruffled its beautiful copper feathers, and shuffled the brilliantly yellow feet.

'Why is there a _chicken_ in here?' I asked, outraged. I felt my cheeks going pink. I, too, found the no animals rule cruel. But rules were rules. He knew the rules. Why break them? It was such a _vicious _looking animal at that, as well.

'He – it's – a falcon,' he whispered. I began to feel bad, and my muscles were loosening.

'But – rules are rules … no animals… you can keep it – _him_ – outside,' I replied, trying to keep my firm tone. My eyes were sliding over to look at the "chicken". He was a magnificent bird of prey, in a cage, blinking curiously at me. He didn't look fierce, not like most falcons. His large eyes gave him a sympathetic look, but his rugged feathers told otherwise.

'He's beautiful,' I said softly. _Me_? Ann, disregarding rules ever so slightly? I was a very rule-abiding person, and here I was, instead of shooing the bird out the window, cooing at it? I glanced at Cliff. He read my expression.

'His name's Cain. Found him as a baby; his wing seemed broken, and he was tiny. He had fallen out of his nest, I think – I didn't think he'd live. He was a bit of a runt,' he replied, quietly. 'But look at him now.'

'Yeah,' I breathed. I could feel my heart beating. 'But still… they're rules,' I added, still looking at the bird.

He nodded. 'I'm sorry.'

'No – don't be… this is going to get me in a lot of trouble if I get found out – but I'm going to help you keep this bird in this inn, okay?' I said on impulse, shocking myself. I stared at the glowing fire, and nodded. I wasn't going to take anything back. He smiled gratefully.

'Well, hurry up! Put the cage under the bed, and dinner's at seven, and you'd best be up tomorrow by eight – breakfast's at nine. And call me if you need anything… Cliff.'


	6. Shopping

Thanks so much. You're all so nice. Sorry for your confusion, Ekoaleko, it's not N64, it's FoMT… it's just that I was confused as to why Cliff never had Cain in BTN and FoMT. If you keep reading my fics, you'll notice that I often include stuff from other games… XD It's just… I felt like it. I see both Cliff and Ann as animal lovers, really, and stuff. Sorry. D: I feel bad. ;;

Oh, and this is set about a year before Jack moves in.

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I do most of the shopping for the inn. Everyone in town gets their daily shipping from Zach. See, every time our shipping arrives, we get a sheet of paper, with all the things we can order from it. I order the obvious stuff, like eggs, milk, mayonnaise, cheese and the vegetables.

It's really good, home grown food from the quaint little farm near the forest, Moondrop farm. It's named that because supposedly before the farm was built, the area was just a huge field of Moondrop flowers. I can just imagine the flowers glowing in the rays of sunshine. There are a few stray Moodrops on the farm, but not enough to live up to its name. That's why we didn't call it that. We called it Jock's place.

Farmer Jock was the man behind the fresh food that was delivered to our door every day. It was his hands that milked the cow that produced the fresh creamy milk; it was him that bred those chickens that produced the luxury eggs; it was his hard work that produced the glossy vegetables. You could hardly believe a man so old could do that! He's the backbone of our village.

It's me that ticks off the products every morning on that sheet, and calculates the price, and fetches the money, while Zach leans on the counter impatiently, as he has many other customers to attend to. But we're always the biggest buyers, since we own the local inn.

I also shop at the Supermarket, just to buy big brand type of food and essentials like flour, chocolate, oil, y'know. And then sometimes I pay a trip to Jock's place, where there's bound to be something good on his little farmer's stall. He didn't mind you just coming without notice.

That's what I did the day after Cliff and Cain arrived. It was a cold, miserable day, and I was hurrying along, my umbrella being swooshed and squeezed into painful shapes and sizes. I scrunched my face up so my hair wouldn't flick around my face, and I pulled my very ladylike – _too _ladylike – cream trench coat's hood further down my head. I rushed down the red cobbles, and opened the gate gently.

Of _course_, even in this weather the farm managed to look ridiculously idealistic. Whilst the rest of town looked miserable with soggy snow, Jock's place looked like a winter wonderland, although even here the jolly festive feeling had withered away. Still, it looked lively and fresh, as though welcoming a New Year. I glanced at the glowing windows from behind my snow-frosted eyelashes. Even the wind wasn't blowing as much, and the snow _here_ was a gentle, light fall. The pristine fields were thick with snow, and the scarecrow had been sculpted into a snowman.

I looked around for Jock, or his wife Nina. Nina was never seen very often, but she was a sweet old lady, though quiet. The type that knits contentedly and likes flowers and repeats old jokes and still has her wedding dress. Jock was also a stereotypical sort of old man too – the outgoing man who smokes a pipe and reads a newspaper every morning, and uses expressions like "dandy" and talks about the good old days. It's very endearing in a stereotypical sort of way.

So I knocked on the door. Jock answered it, and if you were ever around Jock you'd know why Nina was unnoticed. Jock _squished _Nina in a conversation. He was loud, funny, rude and very, very enticing.

But the main reason why no one Nina never went out was because she was ill.

Nina was somewhat related to Lillia, somewhere along the lines, third cousins, I believe. They look alike, the hair especially. But there was some sort of hereditary disease in their family. Lillia had it, Nina had it, and a lot of women in their family did. Even _Popuri_ held a risk against it. No one ever talked about it but supposedly it wiped the energy out of your body, leaving you frail and weak. And the worst thing was, you lead a very old life with it, as it got worse and worse, see.

Nina was very old.

'Why _hello _there, m'girl! Ann! Is that you? Why, you've _grown_! _Do_ come _in_!' Jock exclaimed delightedly. The fire was crackling, and something was cooking. I sniffed deeply, and figured it was stew. I felt a bit quiet when Jock was around. I shook my umbrella again.

'Hi Jock! Hi Nina!' I greeted them, taking off my coat. It was even more idealistic in here, with the old fashioned _everything_. I perched politely on a chair. Nina smiled. 'How – how are you, dear?' she asked, with a surprisingly smooth voice. She had a plump, kind face, with shining eyes full of youth and curly, bouncy white hair. The rest of her body was weak and frail. She was pruning some sort of tree – I know she was a florist or something when she was younger.

'Fine thank you. I was _just_ thinking, my papa really would appreciate some bread, and some flowers for the hotel – and maybe, maybe some… birdfeed?' I suggested pleasantly. Jock was never suspicious.

'Of course! What a fine idea!' Nina exclaimed in a breathy voice, with a sigh.

'I _quite_ agree. Is _that_ what kids these days eat? I'll go out and get you some!' Jock replied, with a grin, tipping his hat.

It took me a while to figure out that he thought I was going to serve _birdfeed_ at the inn. I smiled and nodded. He was smoking a pipe and he had a round pale face. He wore a brown baker boy cap; overalls tucked into polished boots and a check shirt. He wore a dandy brown jacket that matched the hat. He always seemed to smile, Jock did. If you hadn't guessed, Jock wasn't his _real_ name. He went into his larder in which bountiful goods seemed to pour out of.

Then I looked at Nina, and noticed her near transparent skin. Her little hands working away at the pruning. I looked at the black and white photos of the jolly, lively plump woman in them. It was hard to believe it was the same woman. She was still very lively, but she didn't really have the _strength_ to be.

'Y'know, Nina; you should really come on over to the inn!' I exclaimed, being a little disconcerted when she didn't look up. 'We could probably reserve you a really nice table!'

She did look up, and I think she maybe hadn't heard me the first time. Her bright eyes sparkled. 'Well, well – that … that would be perfectly lovely! But Jock really _does_ get a little … well … well, _silly_ when he has a drink.'

'Can a man not _like_ his ale?' he called out from the larder. '_Well_, Nina – I think you and I _should_ go to more special places _together_. That's a _fine_ idea, Ann.'

He stepped out and brought back a loaf of bread, some pretty moondrops, and a small packet of birdfeed, with some complementary vegetables. Food was scarce in the winter, so I was pleased at the turnips and tomatoes he had donated so kindly. I thanked, clattered down at least 1000G and peered inside the stew, and couldn't resist commenting that fish always made stew taste better.

I grabbed my umbrella and coat, and waved goodbye to them.

-

I am Quite Pleased with this chapter. _So _long, but I had to keep it long to include all the stuff. I promise it won't be so long next time. See how I included Nina in my story, I do that a lot. D: I like to relate them together.


	7. Winter's last light

* * *

**Chapter seven: Winter's last light**

Oh, there goes that pre-New Year hum, buzzing up the air again. It was New Year's eve, and we were all hustle and bustle. Papa had confined me to serving, and I was listening to the rise of hopeful voices rolling out the end of the year.

Everyone was ready to forget the year past, and the troubles they had faced, and they were feeling like they could maybe put their brave face on and make everything all better. That's the optimism that's in the air, every year, in Mineral town. I'm stuck in the inn all day, but I leave the window open. It creeps under the window, chilly, and that hopeful optimism gets a little to me too. I'd popped a few apple pies on the house already.

I don't know how many diners I'd seen today, but I was darn sure it was enough. Flitting in and out like birds, ordering their apple pie. Eating in or taking out? Taking out, miss, no treacle, miss, yes, please, thank you, going to play in the snow, miss.

And when did I become a _miss_?

It had been a disappointing winter for snow, definitely. Frosts would come and go, and it was only till the twenty second that we got three inches of the stuff. By the twenty-eighth we were sure of a full on thaw, but the twenty ninth frosted again. We were surprised to find yesterday morning, as we stumbled outside in the ruddy dark in our slippers, rattling our shiny red tin letter boxes for our morning mail, that white was falling from the black sky.

I, too, wished I could play in the snow. I had a face straighter than a ramrod these days – there was a definite feeling of loneliness underlying my every move. I just wanted someone to talk to – to feel involved. I would lean out of the little window behind the counter and speak to passers-by in a neighbourly fashion, whilst awaiting the next steaming apple pie.

When Rick passed at half past eight in the morning to see Karen, I was simmering fine. But by the time Anna had glided by at three in the afternoon, emerald green winter dress aflutter, I was sunken in my seat. It was a busy day, after all. I had already reluctantly confirmed to my father through the porthole in the kitchen that a second rate swing band from two towns over would be playing tonight, rather than the first rate jazz four-piece we had initially set our sights on.

Even from under the rising steam release of those stewing apples, I could hear my father's hissing and see his moustache quivering angrily. He told me that I should have booked it earlier.

I replied that no one would come to our stupid New Year's night.

He asked why. And I replied that they'd rather spend such a precious night with their family, quiet celebrations, not tacky countdowns and quizzes. I shut the porthole, and continued to doodle my feelings out onto the lined paper, aiding myself with the therapeutic sweetness of leftover apple pie.

I was wrong about our New Year's night. The low hum that thrived in the air had skittered to buzzing heights by nine. Voices, chatter, footsteps, bottoms on seats.

It wasn't even just the typical Billy-no-mates that might turn up to these things – y'know the type of guy – no family ties, willing to make new friends – there's always a few. I stood out by the door, feeling a fool in a dress that was forced on me by my father, a garish pink. Manna told me I looked _cute_, with that all too familiar glimmer of her eye and flicker of her eyelid. I smiled, took off her coat – oh, what an adorable sweater, it certainly flatters your _chins_, ma'am – and seated her rather near the back.

It was quite full – with my back on the door, I was rearranging the ivy display that kept falling off, and gazing around the room. Manna kept flitting off to different tables, leaving Duke seeking condolences in his shimmering dark wine – few more depressing sights would you find in this village. Stu flicking peas at May in a very large table, with Elli looking humiliated and the doctor looking uncomfortable. Popuri looking woebegone, as she frequently had done for the past six months without Kai – elderly Ellen, staring out of the window as though recalling a painful memory – and Cliff, standing in the corner, just plain lonely.

He seemed to be standing just near a crowd, not within it, but beside it. They seemed to be watching the television set that was situated on the wall, watching the New year's celebrations, as were many people – sometimes they would cheer – at this, Cliff would shuffle uncomfortably.

I suddenly realised that maybe this holiday wasn't the happiest for everyone.

A protective surge fell over me as I spotted someone lonelier than myself across the room – he had no-one on such a _together _kind of festivity. Idle chatter fell over the room as faces were turned to one another, but eyes were drawn back to the television. There was nothing for me here. I grabbed my cream trench coat and left the building.

It felt good being out here. The air was clean. Quiet. Y'know – ever since I was little, when I was alone, just like this – I used to spin in circles. I don't know why. But I found myself moving my feet round and round, to the very faint, pulsing music. I span and span, _now_. I was caught off guard and I felt my ankle give way, but then a tight fist caught my arm, and it hurt.

'Ow,' I said blankly. I looked up. Cliff stood slightly away, still gripping my arm. I yanked it away – I didn't want him to pull me up, for a reason I couldn't explain. The tangerine glow of the head lamp and the contrasting blue lights glittered on the fresh snow. I stood up, brushed myself down. He was walking away.

'Wait,' I called, my voice cracking, stinging the silence. I walked steadily to him, catching a glimpse of the darn despised pink dress from beneath my coat. He turned around. 'Why did you come out here?' I asked.

'... Well, why did _you_ come out here?'

I shuffled, and understood. I felt instantaneously guilty. No. Sorry, Cliff. That was mean. 'It was hot.'

'...Yeah.'

I leant against the wooden picket fence that surrounded the winery, our next door neighbour. I remember the winery was once a bright, happy place that seemed to light up town with its ... downright purpleness. It fell into disorder when the family fell into disorder, see.

I suddenly recited aloud the year Aja left. Cliff looked at me curiously. 'It was a bad year for wine. But a good year for apples. We started serving cider at fancy dinners, y'know?'

'Wine is...'

Cliff drifted off. I laughed. 'Maybe you'd like Duke.'

I found myself wandering into the wineyard, fiddling with the grape vines, stroking the bare poles, of a once prospering plant. 'Y'know, Cliff, we try to work together in this communities, helping out each, supplies, things.'

He nodded, but I know he was gazing at the roots that lay beneath the poles. I looked at him for a bit, just like that. I thought he was a kind of beautiful person, but he was a little bit skinny and a little bit pale. Like he hadn't eaten in a week.

'You like food, Cliff?'

He pulled at his sleeves, and blew into his clasped hands. 'Of course... but – I – times have been hard, you know?'

I nodded. 'Yes, I know,' I replied quietly, looking at his scarred hands. They could be just from handling his bird. But they could be from something else. Hard times. Still looking at him, I asked, 'Why are you in Mineral town, Cliff?'

His hand drifted onto the hard, infertile winter soil, glittering in the glow of the lights that adorned Mineral town. He was silent for a bit. He seemed to be thinking things over. I wished I hadn't said it. But I wanted to talk. I wanted to understand him.

From inside, I heard the gallant slurs of "...eight..!" – leaving an unmistakably silent pause between counts.

I stared at his closed fist on the ground. 'Seven,' I replied. I heard this echoed in the inn. 'Six,' said Cliff. A mirror sound was heard faintly in the inn, again.

'Five,' I whispered.

'Four,' he muttered.

'Three.'

'Two.'

'One.'

A faraway, joyous explosion erupted, piercing the cold silence. It was sad. Very sad. It shouldn't be, I thought, but I couldn't stop looking at this bare pole and his scarred hands and the melting snow and... 'Kiss me.'

He looked up, and I think he was almost as shocked as I was. 'W-What?' He asked, and stopped scraping the dirt, and stared at me with shiny eyes, eye contact, for the first time. I don't know why I said it. It was me that then began scraping the dirt. 'It's what people do at New Year's, isn't it? Kissing?' I asked defensively, feeling myself reddening, swinging my hair over my shoulder. There was still a faint cheering to be heard in the night.

From the lights glinting around us, I could just see that Cliff was going red too, and he just seemed to be staring at his left arm, silent. He abruptly stood up, with a defiant "...bye...", and left the vineyard. I watched him pass the picket fence, on the other side.

'Happy New Year, Cliff...' I said wistfully.

And I was alone. I felt stupid, so stupid. One of the most embarrassing things I'd ever done, I was sure of that. And soon I found myself spinning again, spinning all alone. Why did I do that? Isn't that what you did at New Year's? Why didn't he kiss me?

I didn't care, though; I only did it in celebration – it was meaningless. I was Ann, happy go lucky, cheerful Ann, had no interest in boys. She didn't need boys. Boys _suck_.

But I wish he kissed me.


End file.
